My younger brother, Donaldo, is home.

(Quick reminder: My siblings, in order from least to greatest, are : Miguel, me [Guillermo], Donaldo, Barbara, and Luis. A handy mnemonic device to remember is Mischievous Guillotines Decapitate Bodies Liberally.)

Donaldo is on leave from Fort Benning, Georgia.

It's been some time since all the Lopez boys have been together.

No good will come of this.

I'm excited.

Also, I have just accidentally taken an overdose of Day-Quil, that wacky over-the-counter cold medicine.

Please forgive any unusual behavior/blogging/phone calls, at least for the next 4-6 hours. Thank you for your patience.

Meanwhile, back in the Royal Scrivening Room...

I: Quibbles Bumbly! Dryly Snydesdayle! I do summon you forth, my Head Scriveners!

Bumbly: Whaddya want?

Snydesdayle: Here, Official Gurg.

I: I bear ill news.

Bumbly: Oh, is that why you're wearing cow slippers? Are they supposed to lighten the mood or something?

I: Actually, these cow slippers were a present from the war-torn land of Evermore. And my feet were cold because I just got out of the shower and...damn you, Quibbles! Cease your babbling for a moment and listen. There is news from the Island Nation of Dana.

Snydesdayle: What? My beloved home?

I: Yes, I'm afraid so Dryly. I have just received word that The Island Nation of Dana will be temporarily closing her borders.

Snydesdayle: Closing her borders?! Why?! What have you done to make her do such a thing?!

Bumbly: Whoa, Snydey's freakin' out! He's got a point, though. Did she find out about the time you kidnapped her boyfriend to go eat sandwiches and smoke cigars in the forests of Northern Arizona?

I: Dryly, Bumbly, I assure you that I have had no influence on the matter! The borders will be closed while The Island Nation Of Dana pursues diplomatic matters in England.

Snydesdayle: ...Forgive my outburst, sir. This is all very...overwhelming.

Bumbly: Hey man, just relax. Try to focus on the cow slippers.

I: Quibbles, remove yourself immediately. In my current state, I cannot promise that I will not jam this writing quill into your eye.

Bumbly: The big quill or the little one?

I: OUT!

Snydesdayle: May I take my leave as well, sir?

I: In a moment, my dear Dryly. I wish to extend my deepest sympathies and guarantee you that every effort will be made to continue correspondence between our nations.

Snydesdayle: Very good, sir. Thank you.

I: I also wish to offer you full citizenship to the Nation-State of Guillermo.

Snydesdayle: I am honored, sir, but I must decline. I ask you again, sir, may I go?

I: Yes, of course. You may take your leave, my Head Scrivener.

Snydesdayle: Thank you, sir.

I: Eh, Dryly?

Snydesdayle: Yes?

I: I am granting you a fortnight of reprieve from your duties here. I will also send word to the Royal Treasury to give you a travel allowance so that you may spend your vacation wherever you wish.

Snydesdayle: Wherever I wish? That will be quite impossible, sir. I cannot go home.

I: I understand, Dryly. But please, take the time off. I will keep you continually updated as to the progress of The Island Nation Of Dana.

Snydesdayle: I appreciate that, sir. Good day.

I: Good day, friend.

Bumbly: Hey, I heard all that! You're giving him money just because he's feelin' a little down? C'mon! Hey, I'm sad too! Look! Oh, wonderful D'isle, my precious island! Woe is me that I no longer see your shores! Boo-hoo-hoo! I'm so sad...ARGH!!! MY EYE!!!

I: Feel free to keep that quill, Bumbly.

This is a test of the emergency blogging system.

This is only a test.

Why don't people ever think of something interesting to say when they are testing something?

Like roadies that say "Test, test," into the microphones, as if everyone in the crowd has to be convinced. Personally, I have never even come close to mistaking the guys checking the microphones for the actual band I came to see.

Update: Before I left for work today, I spat out the post below. It didn't publish, and until just a few moments ago I was able to make it publish.

And by that I mean I kept hitting "Publish" over and over and over.

Here's to insanity, eh Einstein?

Meg (the pretty one) mentioned that I have been sounding angry.

I haven't been feeling particularly angry, that I can think of. A bit frustrated perhaps. Ben O. wrote this hilarious bit on his blog a while back about this hummingbird that was fiercely guarding a hummingbird feeder. The sugar water in the feeder tasted good to the bird, but was devoid of nutrients. The little hummingbird believed that it was getting what it needed when it was actually getting nothing but a sweet taste in it's mouth.

Well, it was funny the way Ben O. wrote it.

So I've been mulling over that lately. Just wondering what is nectar and what is just sugar water.

But like I said, it's funny.

* * * * *

Seeming angry reminded me of my next-door neighbor at my old house.

She went to Arizona State University, and so did her roommates. She was nice, and would often ask me to help her with typical stuff, like changing light bulbs and stuff. We were friends, but I felt like I was more of a novelty to her, so to speak.

One day she told me, "You're the wierdest person I've ever met. You're so one-dimensional! You're always the same, you're never mad, or sad, or anything."

"Eh, do you mean, 'two-dimensional'?" I had asked her. "One-dimensional is like a dot, or a point. I think you mean I have no depth."

"Well, you're always the same!" she reiterated, "Always in a good mood."

"Maybe I just only come over when I'm in a good mood."

* * * * *

Hmm...I have to leave for work in five minutes.

The other night I was sitting at the computer and coughing and my mom scolded me again about neglecting my health. "You have to be careful, you've had that cold for three weeks!"

"Three weeks?" I muttered. "That's nothing to worry about. My alcoholism still holds the record at three years and counting."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." (cough cough)

A Word About Commenting:

Since the blog-out commenting system has gone a bit wonky, I have found myself re-evaluating the role of comments in my blog.

I have felt it is only fair to have a commenting option. It is a simple premise: I get my say, and you can have your say, if you wish.

I also figured it would be an easy way for others to point out to me that I am completely wrong/missing the point.

But it's a double-edged sword.

I must point out that there is no statute of limitations on what you've said in the past. If you've ever told me that this one time you thought you could fly because a circus mouse gave you a magic feather, I reserve the right to bring up that particular tale around your grandchildren.

I would recommend that in the future you don't blame me for something that you have said.

Something I scribbled earlier tonight:

There are times when you feel that your heart is not in your chest where it should be; that it is locked up, confined in a pad-locked strong-box.

It is somewhere far away, but you are still able to feel it's anger as it pounds furiously against the walls of it's cold iron cell. Far away, it is strugglng to return to you.

You know that despite how much it has hurt you before, or how much it may hurt you again, you are incomplete without it.

You want only one thing in this world. You want this one thing, and there is only one person in the world who can give it to you. You have but one thing to say to the person that has captured your heart. It is a pitiful amalgam of righteous authority with a whimpering plead.

"Give it back."

First Things Firsted

I'd like to belatedly welcome Taryn to the blogosphere. A few weeks ago I had called her to ask her for a blood donation. I had thought it was her, but I hadn't known her last name. My little computer screen was telling me that she was the same age as the Taryn I know, but she wasn't responding to any of my subtle school-name-dropping. Clever girl.

Welcome back, Brian H. By the way, one of those guys from Soaking Fused that you brought to my party still has my copy of The Art of War. I want it back, but it isn't urgent. Typically, Sun Tzu is never around when you need him.

Ben O. has posted. It was well worth the wait.

Molly and Joey, I have to thank you for referring to me as "Nobody," as you both did when you wrote that "No one reads this site." I appreciate your foresight. The name would be useful should I come across another Cyclops like ol' Polyphemus, and subsequently have to blind him. So I am content in knowing that when either of you say "No one," you mean me.

Oh, but welcome, Molly. As I mentioned before, my links are for my own ease of blog-reading.

Jake playing; semi-colons; and how to sit too close to a fire.

The other night I went to listen to Jake play at The Coffee Grounds. He rocked the house with some acoustic Snoop D-O-dubble-G, a grip of his original stuff, and even honored my request and played Climbing Up The Walls. (If someone told me that for the rest of my life I could only listen to the original song or Jake play it, I would have an incredibly hard time deciding. I'd probably keep asking to hear them both over and over until I was threatened to decide or risk bodily harm.)

And as I listened, I wrote a bit. What I wrote wasn't meant to be a post.

So here it is.

(Sitting close to the fire. Too close; I'll probably be covered in ashes by the end of the paragraph. It matters little to me at the moment; a quick scan of the patio reveals no one that my life depends on impressing. [in margin] Semi-colons are good luck; yes, they are, I'm listening to my friend Jake play. He's good. He's damn good.

I hope his audience finds him.

A drunk man at a table is competing for sound space, talking loudly on his cell phone.

[experimenting with a comedic bit] Lady Liquor, you're a relationship I can live with. Not that it's incredibly different from any other one I've had. But with real relationships there is still that niggling hope that everything will be all happily ever after.

Not so with Betty Booze. We'll have one great night; we'll be all into each other, getting wild. But she won't stay. She'll leave in the night (hopefully I'll be conscious enough to make it to the restroom.) I'll wake up the next morning/afternoon. She'll be gone, and I'll feel like shit.

Same as any other relationship.

[attempt at comedy ended; wordplay begins]

"And the smoke rapes my eyes."

"My eyes burn as the smoke rapes them."

"My eyes burn as they are raped by the smoke."

I've consumed 32 ounces of strawberry milkshake. This will not end well.

The Luis Story I Promised; Not So Much A Dirty Joke As A Risque Story; Some Rambling That Will Be Indicated By Asterisks' And Then Placed At The End

Luis and I went to go A Christmas Carol presented by South Mountain Community College.*

It wasn't bad. The set looked good, the costumes were hip, but the performances didn't hit the emotional levels in certain scenes that the play is easily capable of. Lindsay was good.

A Christmas Carol will always have a special place in my heart, as I've mentioned. I was in that play at my high school. I was the Ghost of Christmas future. (It was characteristic of the roles I was typically cast for; ones that didn't require much speaking. I am not a good actor.) I got to wear this sweet long, black, robe, and carry a giant staff.

I had just been throwing the robe over my regular clothes during rehearsals. The night of the first performance, someone dared me to go on stage wearing only my underwear under my robe. I was all "Sure, why not?"

Then someone said, "If you've got any real balls, you'll go out there bare-ass naked under that robe!"

A dare is a dare.

So, if anyone was in the audience the year we put on that show, the only thing between you and the ominous spirit that foretold Scrooge's doom was a thin layer of cotton/polyester blend.***

"God bless us, everyone!"

*I had been at Casey Moore's (a bar) and run into Lindsay Temple, a former Philosophy 101 classmate of mine, over a year ago. We were both too drunk to argue philosophy as we used to (or perhaps not drunk enough) so she had jotted something on a napkin and pressed it into my hand. I felt all smooth until I read it later and all it had on it were the dates and times of the play. Foul temptress! This was surely some malicious plot cooked up by the person in charge of publicity.**

**I could picture this publicity director now, with a down-turned, scowling, lips, and baleful eyes. She would be wearing a sweatshirt proclaiming her name/title, Publicitor, The Amasser. "Now Lindsay," she'll raps, "Go to bars, meet all the drunks that have nothing to do for days at a time, and get them to come to our show!"
"I hear and obey, O' Publicitor, The Amasser!"

***That goes for all of you that were in the cast, as well. Oh, and special thanks to Trevor for making sure that no one stole my clothing while I was onstage.

Is it just me or has my writing path been more wandering than Destiny's garden?